


John and Mycroft’s Discussion

by KathyG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Mycroft, Gen, No Slash, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyG/pseuds/KathyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this BBC Sherlock story, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother, wants Dr. John Watson to let go of his stubbornness about accepting help.  This little one-shot is based on Mycroft’s portrayal in Richefic’s stories, <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6264861/1/The-Consequences-of-Caring">“The Consequences of Caring,”</a> <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6350584/1/Partners-in-Crime">“Partners in Crime,”</a> and <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6293150/1/Hope-for-Heroes">“Hope for Heroes.”</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	John and Mycroft’s Discussion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Richefic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Richefic/gifts).



> This is my first Sherlock fanfiction story, so any feedback will be welcome! My thanks goes to Yitzock at the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum and here at AO3 (also known as MewWolf5 at Fanfiction.net) for beta-reading my story.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John, and Mycroft are not my property, but that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and of the talented co-creators/writers, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

John reclined in his stuffed armchair, reading a novel. Earlier, Sherlock had left for Barts to conduct some experiments. Beams of afternoon sunlight poured through the living-room windows, forming reflected rays of light on the carpeted floor. Suddenly, somebody knocked on the front door. 

“Come in,” he said. 

The door creaked open, and Mycroft stepped inside, clasping his umbrella. Closing his book, John laid it on the coffee table next to his chair and rose to his feet. A mixture of surprise and uneasiness filled his heart—what on earth did Mycroft want? Was he there to see Sherlock? 

“Hello, Mycroft,” John greeted him as they shook hands. 

“John.” Mycroft nodded and, at John’s invitation, sat down in the other armchair, facing John. The former army doctor took his own chair as usual; the soft mattress sagged underneath as he sat down, and his lower back pressed against the Union Jack cushion that typically rested on the back of that chair. Sitting back, Mycroft leaned his folded umbrella against the side of Sherlock’s own armchair, but twirled it back and forth between his fingers. As always, Mycroft was impeccably dressed in a three-piece business suit, complete with a tie. John rested his hands on the armrests. 

“Sherlock’s not here,” John told him. “He’s at Barts.” 

“I know,” Mycroft said. “It’s you I came to see.” 

John furrowed his eyebrows in puzzlement. “Me? I don’t understand. Is there something you need me to relay to Sherlock? Or are you asking me to keep an eye on him for some particular reason?” He raised his left hand to scratch the side of his face. 

Mycroft smiled. “Not at this time,” he said. “For once, I’m not here about Sherlock.” He paused. “I’m here about you, John.” 

John’s frown deepened. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands together in his lap. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” 

Mycroft chuckled. “No, I’m sure you don’t.” He shifted position. “Don’t worry; I will explain.” He laid his left hand in his lap while still twirling the umbrella with his right. “As I told you when we first met, I worry about him constantly.” 

John nodded. He understood all too well. “After the months I’ve lived with him, I can certainly understand why.” 

Mycroft smiled ruefully. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” Leaning forward, he gazed at John. “You _do_ understand, only too well. Sherlock is quite reckless, and he does not take very good care of himself. You and Mrs. Hudson are the only people who can persuade him to do that even a little.” 

John grimaced. “It’s not easy,” he said. “But I do try.” He cleared his throat. 

Mycroft nodded. “I know you do, John. And for your efforts, I thank you. You are doing for my brother what I have been unable to do because our relationship is so difficult. I do not have as much cause, anymore, to worry about him as I did in the past, because he does have you to look after him. He is taking better care of himself now than he did before you became his flatmate. I still worry about him, but not as much as previously. And for that, I thank you, John.” The former army doctor smiled in acknowledgement. 

Mycroft reclined in his armchair, thinking for a moment and glancing at his folded umbrella. Then he looked directly at John. “With that said, it is not my brother alone whom I worry about anymore,” he said. “I also worry about his flatmate.” He chuckled at the startled expression on John’s face. “Yes, John, that’s right. I also worry about you.” 

John chuckled uneasily as he shifted position, hands still clasped together. “What, I have worrisome traits?” 

“We all do, John.” Mycroft raised his hand as John began to sputter with indignation. “None of us are exempt. I have my own share of worrisome traits, as Sherlock would be the first to tell you. You should get him to share them with you sometime. I’m sure it would amuse him.” John grinned. He didn’t doubt that for a second. 

Mycroft sat there for a moment, gazing at John. He stopped twirling the umbrella, but still gripped it between his fingers. “And _your_ worrisome traits are as follows.” He paused for a long moment. “John, you are, without a doubt, one of the finest and most decent human beings I have ever had the privilege of getting to know.” Letting go of the umbrella, he leaned forward to emphasize his point. “You’re also one of the most stubborn. You are _very_ good at offering help to other people, for which I commend you. But you are _extremely_ stubborn when it comes to accepting _any_ help for yourself when you need it. And for that, I do _not_ commend you, John. False pride is _not_ a virtue; it’s a vice.” 

Fidgeting, John shook his head and rolled his eyes. “And how do you know so much about my worrisome traits, such as my reluctance to accept help? Has Sherlock been speaking of me to you?” 

Mycroft shrugged. “No, he hasn’t, and in truth, it’s not that difficult. Sherlock is not the only one in London with the skills of deduction. I have them, too, in greater measure than my brother. I have been keeping an eye on you and Sherlock ever since you moved in with him. Sherlock has not told me about the incidents in which you have tried to refuse his help, but it is not difficult for me to deduce what’s going on. Not only will you not ask for help, but you are extremely resistant to accepting _any_ help when it’s offered to you. Instead, you always try to do it all by yourself, no matter how much it makes you uncomfortable, or how much it inconveniences you. If my brother did not know which buttons to push, he would not be able to help you at all.” 

John fidgeted again, uneasily, the mattress creaking underneath him. What Mycroft had just said was all too true. It was indeed most difficult for him to accept help from others, or to ask for it. To accept help from Sherlock or anyone else really went against the grain, even when he desperately needed it. He looked up at Mycroft. 

“And what are you suggesting that I do about it?” John challenged. 

“Well, for starters, I suggest that you begin by accepting this truth: no man is an island. Not even you.” Mycroft paused. “We all need one another, John. We need to help one another, and we need to accept help from one another. You are a strong, capable person, but you cannot do it all by yourself. Sometimes you do need help, whether it’s from Sherlock, myself, or someone else. You need to be willing to accept that help when the need arises.” He paused. “If you will do that, I will have less cause to worry about you, at least on that point.” 

John spent a few minutes thinking about what Mycroft had just said. “And if I do that, will you not worry about me anymore?” 

With a rueful smile, Mycroft shook his said. “Not altogether, no,” he said. “The work that you do with Sherlock is enough to worry me about both of you, because it is a dangerous business. _Very_ dangerous, as you have discovered. That is why I keep you both under surveillance. But if you will accept my suggestion, John, that is one thing that I will not need to worry about, after this.” 

Smiling, John shook his head. “You surprise me, Mycroft.” He looked intently at Sherlock’s elder brother. “I’ve always thought that, for you, I was nothing more than the man who takes care of Sherlock for you, has his back on cases, things like that.” 

Mycroft chuckled. “Well, there _is_ a considerable amount of truth to that; I will not deny it.” He paused. “And by doing those things, you are helping me more than you can ever know. By helping Sherlock, you are easing my worries about him. And if you will do as I have just suggested, you will also ease my worries about _you_. I _do_ need you, John, more than you realize. I need you to help me look after my brother, and you cannot do that if your own stubbornness puts you out of commission.” He paused. “For example, if you become sick or hurt, do not refuse Sherlock’s help, or Mrs. Hudson’s—or mine, for that matter. Do not try to do it all on your own. That is just an example of what I am talking about.” 

John sighed. “All right.” He smiled wryly. “It’s hard to change old habits, you know, but I’ll try.” 

“Thank you.” Mycroft smiled, then glanced at his pocket watch. He slipped it back into his vest pocket before speaking again. “Well, I’ve got a meeting back at the office, so I’ve got to go.” 

“Shall I tell Sherlock you came by?” John asked, as he and Mycroft rose to their feet. 

“No, I’d rather you didn’t. Good-bye, John.” The two of them shook hands, and then the unofficial British government picked up his umbrella and left the flat. The door creaked as it swung shut behind him; a moment later, John heard the downstairs front door click shut. 

Dropping back into his armchair, hands resting on the armrests, John spent a few minutes pondering what Mycroft had said. Then, with a rueful laugh, he shook his head, glanced at his book on the table, stood up, and went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.


End file.
